Flying Pieces of Paper
by graysam
Summary: (A collection of one-shots. Multiple pairings and AUs.) "Harder… No, faster." Roderich frowned, eyebrows furrowing. He glanced over through flour covered glasses at the man next to him. Usually, it was Gilbert thinking these things. (PruAus)
1. Running and Rowing

"Tony, I'm going for a run," Alfred called, zipping up his sweatshirt.

Tony looked up from his laptop—well, at least Alfred _thought_ Tony looked up. Tony was his roommate. He had one of those sweatshirts that could be zipped all the way up and had a face on the hood. It was grey, and had an alien face, and Tony always wore it. Alfred wasn't sure why, and Tony cursed an awful lot instead of actually talking, but he was cool.

"Fuck," Tony mumbled, and Alfred ran out the door.

Alfred loved running. Alfred loved running like he loved spring and video games, which is a lot. There was nothing better than running down the street and feeling his lungs and legs burn. He loved the wind that would blow his hair back when he ran by the river.

Alfred dodged potholes in the sidewalk, looking to his right and watching the river pass by. When it was warmer out, Alfred liked to finish his runs by jumping in the water. But it was enough to run by it in the fall.

"Fuck!"

Alfred slowed and looked behind him, wondering if Tony had followed him. He was alone. Alfred shrugged, picking up his pace.

"Fuck—hey! Excuse me?"

Alfred stopped and looked around, eyebrows furrowed. He had read stories about ghosts that would attack hitchhikers when they were alone. Or was it the hitchhikers that would attack people who picked them up? Alfred was about to sprint off when there came a splash from his right.

"Could I trouble you to help?" Came a frustrated voice.

Alfred trotted to the edge of a river to see a man. A very wet man. Who had a boat. The man had light blond hair and green eyes Alfred could see from here. He must have been freezing, but he was waist deep in the water and holding on to his skinny boat with a determined look on his face.

"Dude, why are you in the river?" Alfred asked, approaching the water's edge. There was no way he was going in there. It was October, for Chrissake.

"I tipped over," the man snapped, hugging the boat closer. "Something's caught on the seat, and I have to dive under and unhook it. But the boat will float away. I just need you to hold it…"

Alfred grimaced at the water. "Look, I dunno' where you come from, but in America, in October, we don't get in rivers."

The man glared. "And I'm from England. I can't feel my feet."

Alfred felt his shoulders slump. He really, really didn't want to get into the river. He would be all wet, and he'd have to go home and change and then come back out to run _again_. Alfred was about to decline when he saw the England's teeth chatter; something inside him broke and he groaned.

"Why were you in a boat, anyways?" Alfred asked, tugging off sweatshirt and shirt.

"I row crew," England answered, looking annoyed when his teeth continued to rattle.

Alfred kicked off his shoes and socks. He debated about taking his pants off, but seeing England's face as his hands hovered near his waist settled the debate for him. He trudged into the water, gritting his teeth.

"I thought there were eight people in a boat?" Alfred asked, wincing as he slowly approached England.

"This is a single," England mumbled. "Alright, hold it around there and _do not_ let go. I'll be back up in a second." And then he disappeared under the water. Alfred tapped his fingers on the hull of the boat. He hoped England hadn't drowned.

The boat suddenly gave way, and Alfred gripped the wet surface a little tighter. England reappeared, pushing the boat towards the shore.

"Oh, crap."

England looked annoyed. "What is it?"

"The thing—" Alfred had forgotten the word. God damn it—what was it called?!

"Are you illiterate?" England asked, raising a thick eyebrow.

"Argh, it's floating away!" Alfred dropped into the water and reemerged on the other side of the boat. He handed England his glasses before splashing after the thing-that-was-floating-away. Alfred waded deeper and deeper, ignoring England's panicked yells.

He reached out. God, he was so close. His finger brushed the handle and he lunged, grabbing hold of the thing-that-was-floating-away-but-no-longer. Alfred let out a cheer and hauled himself backwards through the water.

"Don't worry, I got it!" Alfred said, grinning when he returned to England's boat.

England stared at him like he had grown a second head.

"I remember—it's an oar!" Alfred nodded, proud of himself. "Yeah, anyways, the oar was floating away and I got it for you. Aren't you cold?"

"Are you bloody _insane_?" England shrieked. "You could have killed yourself! You're probably going to catch hypothermia now all because of a stupid _oar_? You could have been dragged out by the current! You could have _drowned_."

Now, usually, Alfred didn't like being yelled at. But there was something about the way that England's face moved when he talked, and the way his free hand went to his hip, and the way that—before he had started yelling—there had been almost something like admiration in his eyes. It made Alfred smile even more.

"Why are you smirking?" England ask, eyes narrowing, teeth chattering forgotten.

"I'm Alfred F. Jones, pleased to meet you," Alfred said, grinning even more when he saw England's face. "Now, let's get this boat out of the water before we turn into icicles."

Together, the two of them flipped the boat back over. After that, it was surprisingly easy to lift out of the water and onto the shore. Alfred put his shirt back on, watching as England ripped his off.

"Dude, you're gonna' freeze. Here, take my sweatshirt. Oh, come on, just take it," Alfred threw his sweatshirt at England, who caught it and begrudgingly put it on. "Uh, are you gonna' call someone about the boat? Because we can't le—"

"Thank you," England interrupted.

"Huh?"

"For the oar. And the boat help," England was avoiding Alfred's eyes, staring at his boat. His eyes flicked up to Alfred and he held out his hand. "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred took Arthur's hand and grinned. This is why he loved running. Never know the people you'll meet.

* * *

**Yes, some shorts from Tumblr. Figured y'all on here might like them, too. :3**


	2. Birds

"Well, bird have big noses," Veneziano had suggested.

What a fool he was.

The doctor had looked at Veneziano like he was god. "That's a good idea," the doctor mumbled as he scurried away, carefully stepping over the people who were lying in the street.

Veneziano forgot the exchange he had with the doctor, working almost around the clock to help the people who had come down with the Plague. It had spread so fast, it was all Romano and Veneziano could do to try and help the sick.

Veneziano helped a young woman up from the ground, telling her jokes, though she was half delirious. Romano worked nearby, comforting her children. His older brother bit his lip and looked at Veneziano.

"You don't think we'll catch it… right?" Romano looked guilty for even asking. Veneziano laughed.

"We don't get sick, Romano! Of course not," Veneziano let out another tired laugh, shaking his head.

Venenziano worked till his bones hurt. He finally decided that he _was_ going to get sick unless he took a break. He collapsed into his bed at home, sighing. He faded off into a fitful sleep. He saw dim visions of people crying out for help in the streets.

"Veneziano, wake up," his brother's voice broke through his dreams. "Get up, you lazy bastard," Romano clucked.

Venenziano opened his eyes to pure horror.

He screamed, launching himself backwards in his bed. "Bird monster!" He screamed, throwing his pillow at the demon. "Get away!"

The bird monster swatted the pillow away. "Stop screaming! It's me, you bastard!" The bird monster sounded remarkably like Romano. The bird monster reached up and removed its face, revealing Romano. "It's the mask the doctor was talking about."

Veneziano took a couple of deep breaths. "It's really, really scary."

Romano rolled his eyes. "Look, you fill it with flowers and potpourri so you don't get sick. That way, we don't have to worry."

"It still looks scary."

Veneziano was not the only one who thought this. When the brothers went out a little while later with their masks, healthy people ran away while the sick began prey to the 'Angels of Death.'

"I told you they would scare people," Veneziano pouted, voice muffled through the beak of the mask.

"Oh, shut up," Romano growled, moving toward a new group of people who hadn't yet seen the brothers.

Venezaino tugged off his mask and approached the sick, explaining that the masks were to prevent infection. It took a solid month of explaining before people made the connection between 'scary bird monsters' and 'doctors.'

Romano and Veneziano moved up Italy, following the trail of infection as it spread. Eventually, instead of being the first people to show up into a town with a bird mask, the doctors there were already sporting them.

Veneziano was still terrified of them.

One time, he and Romano entered a richer town with glass in the window shops. Veneziano had been walking by a shop and looked to his right, only to find a distorted and terrifying version of the bird mask staring back at him. He screamed and scrambled away, realizing that it had only been his reflection.

Romano had scared himself like this three times.

When it was getting dark, Veneziano would see the white masks of the other doctors approaching and shiver in fear. He _did_ wonder why the morgue workers didn't wear them. Eventually, he wondered why the people who bricked up the infected houses didn't wear them, either.

"Just be happy you don't have to see more of the damn things," Romano snapped when Veneziano had asked him.

By the time the infection left Italy, Romano and Veneziano were haggard. Veneziano had stopped counting how many people he had to bury months ago. People stopped getting sick because—it seemed—there weren't any more people _to_ get sick.

It took fifty years for the nightmares of bird masks to stop reoccurring nightly. Another hundred for them to fade completely.

Veneziano never had a pet bird.

* * *

**History time! People used to believe the plague spread through bad smells. The masks doctors wore were filled with sweet smelling potpourri to ward off sickness. **

**The Bubonic plague started in the lower half of Italy and spread north, eventually infecting the rest of Europe. **

**Toward the end, those who had caught the plague were bricked up in their houses and left to die, so they wouldn't infect anyone else. **

**PROMPT IDEA FROM: Tumblr user gilbertfjones: Someone write me a fanfic where the nations are in the bubonic times and all of them turn into those doctors for their people, and Veneziano and Romano wear the bird masks and scare the shit out of everyone**


	3. Movies

Antonio thought he was a pretty tolerant person. He worked with kids, after all. He prided himself of being calm and not stressing over things. But, honestly, he just wanted to watch this movie in peace.

Kick.

Antonio closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. It wasn't even a _good_ jump scare. He opened them again, trying to immerse himself back into the movie.

Kelly slowly moved her way through the abandoned hospital. Suddenly—

Another kick.

Antonio turned around in his seat, frowning at the person behind him.

"Stop looking at me, you creep."

Antonio turned back around. The person hadn't seen his frown. Someone was sitting to his left and right, so he couldn't move seats. And it would be very rude—

Kick.

—to try and find another seat in the middle of the movie. Antonio had an internal struggle. He turned around once again.

"Eh, sorry, but you keep kicking my seat."

"I'm _trying_ to watch the movie."

Antonio faced the movie screen. He let out an angry breath. Kelly was hiding in a supply closet now, trying not to scream. A hand—

Kick.

He heard the person behind him get up, walking quickly down his mostly empty isle of seats. Antonio hopped up as well, following. At least now he could confront the person.

Antonio emerged into the bright lobby, squinting.

The man who had been behind him was heading toward the bathroom. Antonio followed him, reaching out to touch his elbow. The man whirled around, eyes wide.

"Jesus, I didn't hear you behind me, fuck," He held a hand to his heart.

Antonio, despite himself, chuckled. "Sorry! I'm sitting in front of you, and you keep kicking my seat! It's annoying, so if you could stop…" This man was pretty cute. Short but thin, flushed face, hazel eyes. Young. Antonio scratched the back of his head, putting on his winning smile. "Heh, sorry, I'm Antonio." He held out his hand.

The man looked at the hand, looking like he was half ready to bolt. He shook Antonio's hand. "Lovino. There's an empty seat next to mine, if my kicking is _bothering_ you so much."

"Lovino," Antonio repeated.

"You can let go of my hand," Lovino said, raising his chin a little higher.

"Sorry!" Antonio released Lovino's hand.

Lovino turned and walked toward the bathroom. Antonio would be lying if he said he didn't let his eyes slide up and down the retreating figure.

* * *

**Prompt from Tumblr user: leafyknockouts. Prompt: kept kicking the back of my chair at the theater AU. **


	4. Elevator

Alfred slammed the car door, enjoying the way the small car rocked. Arthur got out, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a child," he snapped, shutting his own door with equal force.

Alfred glared at the shorter blond. He opened his door again and slammed it once again. Arthur locked the car and headed toward the building, head down. Alfred ran after, face burning. "Wait for me," he growled, passing Arthur and throwing the doors to the office open.

Arthur caught up to Alfred and grabbed his elbow, looking around at the various workers milling around. "Control yourself, will you?" Arthur hissed.

Alfred yanked his arm out of Arthur's grasp, walking swiftly toward the elevators. Arthur looked around, smiling awkwardly at the people watching the scene before following. Alfred stepped into an empty elevator, not bothering to stop the doors as they slid shut. Arthur managed to slip into the small space before they shut completely.

Alfred stared at the button panel.

"Are you going to ask which floor we're going to," Arthur snapped, "Or are you going to stand there like at utter idiot?"

Alfred didn't answer. He ran his hands over all of the buttons, lighting them all up. Arthur let out an angry laugh.

"Oh, real mature, Alfred. I didn't want to get there on time, either!" The elevator started ascending.

"Shut up, will you?" Alfred looked up at the ceiling. "For the love of God, _shut up_."

The elevator shuddered to a halt. Alfred glared at the button panel, pressing the 'Open Doors' button. The elevator refused to react.

"Now look what you've done!" Arthur snapped, pushing the taller blond out of the way. He began to press buttons at random, hoping for some sort of movement of the box they were in.

"It's always my fault, isn't it?" Alfred snapped, crossing his arms.

Arthur hunched his shoulders. "In this case, it _is _your fault, you hamburger-loving, freckled—"

"Oh, fuck you!" Alfred cut in, throwing his hands in the air like he was done with the topic. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

"Is that all you can say?" Arthur yelled, whirling on his companion. "I think you're bloody illiterate sometimes! Like a big, stupid ape!"

Alfred loomed over Arthur, though he was only a couple of inches taller. Arthur stood straighter, looking Alfred in the eye. "You're just an insecure little man who tries to feel big by being sarcastic and talking down to me."

Arthur laughed. "Please. You would hardly know if I was talking down to you. You're a boy, Alfred. A child."

Alfred took a breath. "Is that why you said no?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, backing away from Alfred. "Still?"

"Who says 'no,' Arthur?" Alfred asked, a note of desperation slipping in to his tone. "We've been dating and you moved in and you said 'no.'" Alfred backed up against a wall, sinking down. "Fuck this stupid elevator," he yelled, slamming his fist onto the floor.

"You know why I did," Arthur snapped, though with much less fire than before.

"I'm not going to end up like Francis did!" Alfred shouted, shaking his head. "Something good in your life isn't going to lead to something bad! Fuck," Alfred tore his glasses from his face, massaging his eyes. "You love me, isn't that enough?"

Arthur uncrossed his arms and sighed. He walked over to Alfred and sat down, allowing the taller man to wrap his arms around his shoulders. Arthur petted Alfred's hair. "Oh, shush," he soothed.

"This stupid elevator," Alfred sobbed.

* * *

**More from Tumblr.**

**Prompt by Tumblr user: **imagineyourotp. **Prompt: **Imagine your OTP stuck in an elevator after they've had a fight.


	5. Chief of Staff

Roderich opened the door to Elizabeta's office, sighing. She was busy at her desk, going through the paperwork that her station required. Roderich wondered how in the world she managed to get anything done; even when he helped stem the flow of doctors into her office, she was still constantly in meetings.

Elizabeta raised her eyes for a moment and smiled, gesturing toward the seat in front of her. "Come, don't be a stranger."

Roderich sat down, crossing his legs. "I have to go soon, but I thought you might like an update on how everything was going: the whole Oncology ward is in a riot. Alfred even came up from his den, can you believe that?"

Elizabeta looked up again, eyes worried underneath the exhaustion. "Oh, no," she shut the manila folder she was holding, sliding it to the side. "That nice boy?"

Roderich took off his glasses and played with them. He was having headaches more often now. He might actually have to get a real prescription for his eyes. "Vargas, yes. Went last night. Ludwig… Beilschmidt, he's not doing so well."

Elizabeta steepled her fingers, those intelligent eyes concerned. She needed to go home and sleep. They all did. Roderich should have put his glasses back on and straightened in the chair—he was Chief of Staff, after all—but he remained as he was.

Elizabeta gave him a grim smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

That woke Roderich up. He stood, fixing his glasses on his nose. He shook his head, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "No. I suspect Beilschmidt will, however. I shall send him up to you when he's done with his rounds. Everyone should be too busy mourning to bother you today, so you should be free."

…

"Are you the Mr. Roderich I've heard so much about?"

Roderich looked down at the man in the bed, blinking at him from behind his glasses. "I'm afraid I haven't heard anything much about you."

The man laughed, hand held protectively over his stomach. "I'm Feliciano! I came in here because my brother said I looked like crap, and now they think I have cancer. My doctor is the tall, blond one. I don't remember his last name, but his first name is Ludwig."

"Dr. Beilschmidt. An excellent doctor." Roderich picked up Feliciano's chart, looking it over. Suspect pancreatic cancer. Roderich frowned. "Any history of cancer in your family?"

For the first time Roderich had entered the room, Feliciano's smile dimmed. "My Grandpa, I think. He had stomachaches and his skin turned—jaundice, I think? He didn't want to come in, though. Is that what I have?"

Roderich replaced the chart. "It's possible. Who is—"

"Who's ready to go in a giant magnet?!"

Roderich took a deep breath, turning to glare at the nurse in the doorway. Gilbert grinned at Roderich as he approached Feliciano's bed, winking at the sick man. He parked the wheelchair next to the bed.

"I told you he was a peach!" Gilbert laughed, nudging Roderich. "I'm sure the two of you had a deep, riveting, not-at-all snooty conversation. Roderich, don't question the patient! We already got a patient history."

Roderich was torn between being exasperated and furious. Why poor Feliciano should be subject to Gilbert, of all people…

Gilbert turned to Feliciano bowing and gesturing toward the wheelchair. "Your chariot awaits, Mr. Vargas."

Feliciano laughed, swinging his legs out of the bed. He glanced at the IV stand, uncertain but determined. "I'm pretty sure I can walk there! How far away is it? I'm sure if I just use the stand and sort of…" Feliciano stood, grabbing on to the IV stand.

Roderich was about to order Feliciano to sit back down, when Gilbert interrupted. "Hey, I know that the pain meds are making you feel a little better, but your body's still hurtin', yeah?"

Feliciano sighed good-naturedly, sitting down in the wheelchair. "Everyone here is worse than my brother! You should have seen him when he came to visit me—I took a week off from work, you see."

Gilbert began to wheel Feliciano out of the room. Roderich dawdled for a moment before following, figuring he could at least check on the CT scan technicians while he was there. He caught back up to the blond and the patient, ignoring Gilbert's questioning look.

"… Well, I guess you could say my brother owns the restaurant, but he only really cooks. He and Antonio cook in the back and I take all the orders. There's this other girl who helps out when I'm not there, too, her name is Emma," Feliciano tapped his fingers on his stomach, humming. "I hope she doesn't mind filling in."

Roderich regretted his decision; Feliciano could talk a mile a minute. Roderich actually learned a lot about Feliciano—unwillingly, of course. He cooked, but like painting and drawing just as much. His brother was going to marry the other cook, but he refused to wear the ring except when his fiancé wasn't looking. Feliciano had a cat that he hoped Lovino, his brother, would remember to feed.

"And Antonio certainly won't because he can't remember to feed his turtles half the time! And he loves those turtles. Lovino gets so angry—is this where we're going?"

Gilbert backed into the CT room, nodding, though Feliciano couldn't see him. "Ja. This is the place! It's not as bad as it looks, really."

Roderich went into the control room, gesturing for one of the technicians to go help Feliciano. A plump girl stood and went to go help assist Gilbert in hooking Feliciano up. Ludwig entered while all this was going on, and Roderich nodded towards him in greeting.

Ludwig watched through the window as Feliciano was laid down on the bed and the dye was injected. Feliciano nodded to whatever the technician was saying. She flicked the switch and Feliciano slid into the center of the round machine.

Surprisingly, Ludwig leaned down and hit the intercom button. "Feliciano, is everything alright?"

Roderich glanced down at Feliciano's vital signs and saw what Ludwig had seen. Feliciano's heart rate was up far above what it should be. He whirled on the technician, about to accuse her of killing one of the hospital's patients.

"Ah, well," Feliciano let out a nervous, half-hearted laugh. "I'm a little nervous." His voice sounded very small through the tinny intercom system. "I just—I've never been in one of these, and I don't really know what you're doing and…"

Ludwig sat down in one of the spare chairs, still facing the intercom system. "This is a CAT scan machine. It's a big x-ray machine. The magnets on the inside send out waves of x-rays that the machine collects on a piece of film. The thing we injected you with—the dye, helps show us your pancreas."

Feliciano's face on the small TV screen didn't look very reassured. "Oh, I see. Then what?"

Ludwig looked confused. "Well… We go over your results and we see—"

"No, I mean after the test. What I'm I going to do? Oh!" Feliciano's face suddenly brightened. "Can I get some paper so I can draw? It's super boring in that hospital room! All I can do is look out the window or watch the TV, but all that's on there is Spanish soap operas, and only Antonio can understand those."

Roderich rolled his eyes, catching Ludwig's eye and jerking his head toward the CAT scan. Ludwig nodded and turned back to the intercom.

"Sure, we'll get some paper. I'll bring it to your room after the scan, okay? But you have to remain as still as possible, and remain calm. The machine is loud, but that's just the magnets. Can you do that, Feliciano?" Ludwig asked, leaning in close to the intercom.

"Ah, sure, Ludwig!"

Roderich was miffed. Usually, Ludwig was the kind of no-nonsense doctor that explained the procedure to a patient as quickly as possible. Ludwig was busy—Elizabeta was considering moving him up to the head of Oncology when Yao retired—so usually, he was as brief and informative as he could be without being cold.

Roderich pushed the thought out of his mind as he exited the technician room. He had other branches of the hospital to check up on.

…

"Oh! Mr. Roderich!"

Roderich stopped walking, turning around quickly to look through the doorway he had just passed. He was supposed to be checking on Gilbert for Elizabeta—her boyfriend usually got up to no good trying to cheer up patients—but a detour wouldn't hurt. Roderich entered the room, blinking.

Feliciano grinned, waving as Roderich neared. Ludwig stood on the other side of the bed, chair nearby suggesting he had been sitting only a moment before. He nodded to Roderich, hands behind his back like he was in the military.

"So, I've been drawing all the doctors and nurses and people who've come to visit me to pass the time!" Feliciano explained, pointing to the paper scattered on the desk he was supposed to eat with. "I was running out of people—there are only a couple of shifts, and I can only draw the tree out the window so many times, so I drew you!"

Roderich raised an eyebrow at Ludwig before taking the piece of paper. Roderich was shocked at how good it actually was. It was a picture of him from the three-fourth angle, without his glasses. It was made entirely in blue pen, no doubt nicked from one of the nurses or doctors. It was a striking resemblance coming from someone Roderich had only met once. Roderich looked up at Feliciano.

"Did you have a picture to go by?"

Feliciano smiled guiltily. "Well, I couldn't remember exactly what you looked like, so I might have asked Gilbert and Ludwig for some help! And usually someone'll ask for something other than their face—Gilbert asked for a baby chicken! Ludwig asked for his dog." Feliciano shot a sneaky smile at Ludwig before shifting some papers out of the way to show Roderich. "But I drew him anyways!"

Roderich picked up a few of the pictures, looking through them. A lot were of Feliciano's view outside his window, but there were staff members sprinkled throughout. There was a nurse who Roderich presumed to be on the night shift changing an IV bag. Another one of a man who looked similar to Feliciano, except angrier, with a sleeping man leaning against him. One of Ludwig, standing at the end of Feliciano's bed, looking at a chart.

"Ludwig says I'm going to use up all the paper if I keep drawing so much! I asked my brother to get one of my sketchpads, but he has to keep the restaurant open, so he can't come in much and he always forgets." Feliciano laughed, gathering his paper's together in a neat pile.

Roderich observed Feliciano as he chatted to Ludwig and Roderich. He had lost a lot of weight in only a week. One of his hands was still hovering near his stomach. His jaundice was painfully noticeable.

Roderich returned the pictures to Feliciano, nodding. "I'll definitely come to review your work in the future, Mr. Vargas. I have a friend whose little sister enjoys drawings of cute things. Would you perhaps…?"

Feliciano grinned. "Of course! Like, bunnies and kit—Alright! Sure, I'm sure I can find some time to draw her something. I was running out of ideas, anyways."

Roderich nodded and turned to Ludwig. "May I speak with you?"

Ludwig nodded, and the two of them left Feliciano and wandered further into oncology. They walked for a bit, both subconsciously trying to catch sight of Gilbert. Finally, Roderich shot a look at Ludwig.

"How was the biopsy?"

Ludwig ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. "It looks like it's heading into Stage III."

Roderich stopped, crossing his arms. "Ludwig—"

Ludwig slowed, but didn't turn to face Roderich. "It's hasn't reach his artery, yet. Jones has us, that is, Vargas, booked for tomorrow to cut away as much as we can. Then we're putting him on chemo."

"Radiation?"

Roderich watched Ludwig's head shake from behind. "No, he's nervous about the radiation. He'd rather take drugs."

Roderich took a deep breath and marched in front of Ludwig, eyes two cold shards of steel. "Dr. Beilschmidt, I understand that this case has become personal. However, I ask that you take a step back and look at what's best for the patient. If you feel your… Affections are clouding your judgment, I hope you would do the sensible thing and assign another doctor to Vargas' case. For your sake and, more importantly, his."

Roderich turned away, quest to find Gilbert abandoned.

…

Feliciano didn't have any new pictures for Roderich the next few times he visited. He was curled in bed, arms wrapped around his stomach. He had lost more weight, and was running a fever. Every time Roderich visited, Ludwig had been there at some point or another, checking on the chemo or Feliciano's temperature.

Roderich had helped Elizabeta finish some paperwork, and decided to check on Feliciano before heading home for the evening. He wandered through the hospital, comforted by the fluorescence; sometimes, it seemed too dark when he made the short journey to his car after work.

Roderich paused outside Feliciano's door, frowning when he saw he wasn't the first one to have the idea to visit Feliciano. Ludwig was sitting in a chair, holding Feliciano's hand and talking to him. Roderich wondered if his fever was still up.

"I wish I could draw, still. You should see how serious everyone looks when they come to visit me. If I showed you your faces, maybe some of you could smile!" Feliciano sighed. Roderich wasn't sure if Feliciano was trying to be upbeat, but he did succeed in sounding very tired.

Ludwig's hand reached up to brush back some of Feliciano's hair. "You're very sick, Feliciano. Everyone's just worried."

Feliciano laughed, softly. "Everyone's always worried. Even before I came here. I guess it's your job, though, huh? You have to be worried. I would be worried if my doctor didn't worry about me."

Ludwig let out a faint sound of agreement. He caressed Feliciano's cheek.

Feliciano hummed, hand sliding up to entwine with Ludwig's. He kissed Ludwig's fingers. "A month wasn't a very long time, was it?"

"No," Ludwig agreed, pressing his forehead against Feliciano's, "No, it wasn't."

Roderich withdrew, walking away from the Oncology wing. He had intruded, he realized belatedly.

…

"Roderich."

Roderich stopped, hand on the doorknob. He looked over his shoulder at Elizabeta. She sighed and stood up, stretching. She walked over, standing in front of him and leaning on the chair. Roderich still remembered when she used to wear a doctor's coat, though she had long since been appointed Chief of Medicine.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally.

Roderich turned around, back pressed against the door. "Why would you ever say something so foolish? It wasn't your fault. He caught an infection. He died. That's what most cancer patients tend to do, isn't it?" Roderich registered that it was his mouth the words were coming out of, but he felt oddly detached from the motion.

Elizabeta looked at him. Roderich felt his face flush when he realized she pitied him. He turned around sharply, yanking open the door. Before he could take a step out the door, she spoke.

"I'm sorry Ludwig fell in love. I'm sorry you feel responsible."

Roderich took a deep breath and walked out the door.

* * *

**More from Tumblr. **


	6. American Football

The ball flew through the air like it belonged there. The players dressed in red scrambled against those in blue. Two reds broke through the wall of blue, streaking across the field. The crowd cheered.

The two reds were neck and neck, checking every so often to look behind them as the ball flew closer and closer. The crowd's cheering grew a little confused; who was actually going to catch the ball? Neither were relenting in their pursuit.

The question was answered when the two runners tripped over each other's feet. The ball hit the ground ten feet ahead of them both.

…

"What the fuck was that, Jones?" Gilbert Beilschmidt yelled as they entered the locker room. He ripped off his helmet, throwing it across the ground. He was dripping with sweat and looked absolutely furious.

"Oh, fuck off," Alfred Jones growled back, shoving by the other boy.

The rest of the team entered reluctantly, eyeing the fighting duo.

"No, don't you tell me to fuck off!" Gilbert shouted again, grabbing Alfred's shoulder as he attempted to walk by. He spun the boy to face him, pushing him slightly. "I'm the running back! Why do you feel," he gave Alfred another push, "The need to play the hero constantly?"

Alfred pushed back Gilbert, his hands curling into fists. "Maybe it's because someone _fumbles the damn ball_ all the time! You ever think of that, Burgermeister?"

Gilbert drew back a fist.

"That's enough." Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother, caught Gilbert's fist. "You two need to calm down."

Gilbert ripped his arm away, glaring at his brother. The rest of the team stood in a semi-circle, reading to break up any fighting. Antonio Fernándes-Carriedo took a step forward, smiling apologetically.

"It doesn't matter, we'll do better next game. Right, guys?" There was two or three agreements from the crowd, and the smile fell off of Antonio's face.

Alfred began to speak, agreeing with Antonio, but Gilbert wasn't going to listen to that. He headed deeper into the locker room, ripping off his uniform and padding, throwing it loudly into his locker.

…

Gilbert was the last one out of the showers, brooding in the corner. Even Antonio hadn't tried to approach him. Finally, when everyone had left and the shower had gone cold, Gilbert wrapped a towel around himself and trudged back into the locker room.

"You need to—"

Gilbert screamed, whipping around the half dark locker room and throwing his bar of soap at the voice.

Elizabeta Héderváry stepped out of the path of the soap, crossing her arms at Gilbert. She had changed into the shirt Gilbert had spilled chocolate milk on last week.

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Jesus, woman, can you at least let a man get dressed before you lecture him?" He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on underneath his towel, throwing it away.

"You need to stop this thing with Jones," Elizabeta continued, moving Gilbert's towel out of her path with her foot as she approached. "It's making everyone on the team miserable."

Gilbert kicked around inside his locker for a clean shirt. "Well, it's not _my _fault Jones is a dickhead," he grumbled, shying away from Elizabeta's glare.

"Antonio said he was thinking about quitting."

Gilbert paused, staring into the depths of his locker. It had been Antonio who had made Gilbert sign up for football in the first place. He had explained it was a lot more satisfying to tackle people and not be sent to detention; you were actually praised for hitting people! It had been a godsend to Antonio, then Gilbert.

"Well," Gilbert finally muttered, "What do you want me to do about it?"

Elizabeta slammed Gilbert's locker shut. "I want you to get your _head_ out of your _ass_ and apologize!" She banged her fist again the lockers. "Damn, Gil, it's our last year and you choose _now_ to pick fights with Alfred?"

Gilbert opened his locker again and hunched his shoulders, grabbing the first shirt he came across. Elizabeta let out an angry noise from the back of her throat and walked away, flats echoing off the tile in the room.

…

Gilbert opened his school locker, eyebrows furrowed as he listened to his friends' conversation.

"No, I'm telling you," Antonio insisted, "There's a whole nest of them under my house!"

"That type of turtle doesn't live around here, idiot," Lovino Vargas snapped, leaning against Antonio's locker nearby. "They live by the ocean."

"No, really! A guy came out and everything to look at the nest and he had a clipboard and tie and everything. He told me that they were protected and that I couldn't touch the nest or my Dad would be fined."

"I'm pretty sure you're bullshitting me," Lovino snapped, giving Antonio a slight push.

Antonio laughed, batting Lovino's hands away. "Yeah, yeah. Hey, will you come with me to keep a lookout during, uh, oh, fifth period? Paul's been spreading rumors about me to his friends."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "What sort of rumors?"

"That Antonio is a psychopath who gets his kicks from picking on nerds," Gilbert fabricated, collecting his books and shutting his locker.

Antonio frowned at Gilbert. "Ah, you heard it, too?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and walked away from the pair.

…

Gilbert scribbled on a spare sticky note from his textbook, sending looks at Alfred next to him. Gilbert had carefully planned this seating arrangement. It had taken some work; he had employed Antonio to scare off the other students, but had instructed him to leave the desk next to Gilbert empty, and then leave before Alfred entered the room.

Gilbert's careful orchestration led to the annoying football player sitting next to him.

Gilbert waited until the teacher's back was turned before nudging Alfred, trying to hand him the note. Alfred ignored him, continuing to take notes. Gilbert kicked Alfred's leg.

"What the f—"

"Alfred, is there something you'd like to share with the class?" The teacher called from the front of the room.

Alfred shot a glare at Gilbert before clearing his throat. "No, sir. Sorry." Gilbert hadn't realized this before, but Alfred had a slight Southern accent to his voice.

Gilbert waited until the teacher was turned around before trying to hand Alfred the piece of paper once again. Alfred finally conceded and snatched the piece of paper out of Gilbert's hand, scowling. Gilbert grinned. All according to plan.

…

Gilbert was lying on the bleachers, looking at the grey sky. He wondered if his brother was having fun in the library. Fuck his parents for deciding the two brothers could share a car.

"Why am I here?"

Gilbert's head jerked up. He looked up at the blond standing over him, squinting. Gilbert sighed, stretching out on the hard bleacher. "Well, my ride's busy, so I figured I might as well try to help your sorry ass out for the next few weeks," Gilbert said, sitting up.

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Gilbert stood, facing Alfred. The other boy took a step back, looking uneasy. "You really want to be running back?" Alfred nodded, looking far more serious than he probably needed to. "Well, then I'm going to help you be the best fucking running back this school's ever seen—after me."

Alfred took off his glasses and cleaned them on his t-shirt. He still looked too serious in Gilbert's opinion. "Why?"

Gilbert face pulled into a sneer. "What, do you not want help?"

Alfred's face darkened and he replaced his glasses. "Calm down, dude, I didn't say that. I just didn't think _you_ of all people—"

"Look, Jones," Gilbert snapped, "You don't know anything about me, okay? I have my own reasons for fucking doing this, so shut up and accept the help."

"I don't need help from _anyone_," Alfred barked, taking a step closer to Gilbert. "Hell, the last thing I need is help from some crazy guy who has some weird complex about being better than everyone else."

"_I_ have a complex? Haha, you make me laugh, Jones," Gilbert wiped away a mock tear. "Says the boy who does so many community service hours the school thinks he's lying about it. Who're trying to save, Jonesy?" Gilbert scowled.

"Why're you even offerin' to help me?" Alfred took another step forward. The man was definitely more bulky than Gilbert—that was for freaking sure. "What makes it so—what makes you a better running back than me, huh?"

Gilbert shoved Alfred back. "Well, for one thing, I'm not a lardass! You're built like a linebacker and that's not good for running."

Alfred looked scandalized. "I'm _not_ a lardass!"

Gilbert's lips pulled into a smirk. "Prove it! Run up and down this field without passing out and I'll be _shocked_."

Alfred threw down his backpack. "Fine!" He took off, still in his jeans, running up and down the field. Gilbert was not impressed.

"Get those knees higher, Jones!" Gilbert called as the heavier man ran past.

"Fuck off!" Alfred yelled over his shoulder, attempting to do as Gilbert said.

"Keep your eyes on the end of the field!" Gilbert screeched when he caught sight of Alfred look at his feet. "And get those knees up!"

Alfred fell on his face.

…

"Aw, come on, you just set those up so I would fall on my face," Alfred whined, glancing down sorrowfully at the tires.

Gilbert kicked one the obstacles, hands on his hips. He smirked at Alfred, parading around his awesome obstacle course. Tires, sand bags, and various other hindrances of the feet littered the half the field until the end zone. Gilbert had set it up in the time it had taken for Alfred to get changed

"As much as I love seeing you fall flat on your fucking face," Gilbert chirped, earning a wicked glare from Alfred, "We need to work on those feet of yours. You still have linebacker feet. You have to be quick." Gilbert paced around Alfred in circled, dodging the man's slaps. "Besides, you should be grateful I'm not making you run more laps."

Alfred sulked. "I miss regular practice. Why can't we train then?"

"Because. Regular practice was for linebackers. Go!" Gilbert pushed Alfred, watching him stumble through the obstacle course.

…

During the next game, whenever Alfred was benched, he took notes on Gilbert.

…

Gilbert looked down at his stopwatch, impressed. "Not bad, Jonesy. I dare say you've gotten the hang of not being a total moron. You even got your knees up."

Alfred grinned, looking down the field and nodding. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, amused. The kid was certainly eager to please. His face lit up whenever Gilbert complimented him. Gilbert could put him through the ringer, but if he slipped up and even complimented him just once, Alfred would perk right back up.

"Luckily, I prepared for this event," Gilbert grinned. He pulled out his phone and sent a few text messages, smirk glued to his face. Alfred tried to snatch Gilbert's phone away, but the improvised coach sent a kick at his knee. "Fuck off! Run the obstacle three more times and we're done."

Alfred gasped. "What? No three hundred pushups? No running until my knees give out? No running up and down the field, trying to catch your ridiculous throws?" The smile spread across his face. "You're going soft!"

Gilbert put his hand on Alfred's face and pushed him back. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Do your damn exercise."

Gilbert collected his backpack and headed toward the car, yawning. Ludwig was catching rides home with the guy he was tutoring, so Gilbert had control of the car. He threw his backpack in through the broken window, leaning in and finding a cigarette. He lit it, leaning against the car and taking a deep breath.

Who knew how long he stood there, breathing in smoke.

"They're not gonna' let you play in college in you smoke."

Gilbert nearly cried out, jerking up and glaring at Alfred. "That would be an issue if I was going to college." He lit a new cigarette, leaning against his car once again.

Alfred stood a few feet in front of him, frowning. "Why aren't you?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Not my speed. I'm too awesome for…" he mock shuddered, "_University_." He laughed as he brought his hand up for another puff.

"What're you gonna' do?"

Gilbert looked up at the sky. "Dunno. You?"

"Ah… Well, my dad he, uh, he knows some _people_… Some, uh, scouting people."

Gilbert's head snapped up. "You're fucking kidding me."

Alfred shrugged, smiling like an idiot. "So, I'm hoping for the best."

"You're a fucking miracle, Jonesy," Gilbert breathed, not sure whether to be pissed that Alfred had a leg up while his other friends didn't. "Hopefully, they'll appreciate my hard work."

Alfred rocked back on his heels. "Why're you doing this?"

Gilbert flicked away his cigarette and opened his car door. He slid in, starting his car after a few stalls. "Because."

…

"The goal today, Jonesy, is to dodge these fuckers."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

Gilbert smirked, hands on hips. "It's not all obstacle courses on the field! You're going to have to dodge people whose job it is to knock your fat ass down."

Ivan Braginski and Antonio were both smiling innocently, acting like they weren't about to try and tackle Alfred to the ground. Gilbert had called them away from regular practice and they had happily complied.

"Not so fat anymore," Ivan disagreed lightly. "You're much less fatter now. I cannot wait to squish you like bug." Ivan smiled.

Antonio cracked his knuckles. "It's true. I've got quite a score to settle with you, friend. You knocked me down more than anyone," Antonio looked at Gilbert, smiling apologetically. "I can hit him hard, yeah?"

Gilbert shrugged, tossing Alfred the ball. "Run."

…

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Alfred yelled, pushing Gilbert into the empty locker room. "You get your big ass _thug_ buddies to beat me up?! I thought we were friends!" Alfred glared.

"Fuck off!" Gilbert hissed, throwing off Alfred's hands. "That was to help you! Not my fault you couldn't run fast enough." Gilbert grabbed Alfred's shoulders, shaking him. "We're getting down to crunch time here, Jonesy. You have a _scout_ coming! You have to be on—"

Alfred pushed off Gilbert's hands, but remained close. "Oh, like you care!"

"Like I don't?! I gave up my spot on the team for you, Alfred, and you go and accuse me of—"

Alfred stepped closer, eyes ablaze. "Yeah, well then why _did_ you help me, huh? Why did you give up your spot on the team?" Gilbert opened and closed his mouth, unsure. "Then don't tell me I should respect you for a decision I don't even know why you made!"

"Fine, fuck, because I fumble the ball, alright?"

Alfred wasn't sure whether he should still be angry. His face contorted. "What?!" He said loudly.

"I fumble the ball," Gilbert repeated, frowning. "I can't help it. So, I figured, if anyone should be in my grade's last few football games, it should be someone who wouldn't fumble. And Jonesy," Gilbert chuckled, "You never fumble that fucking ball."

"Oh."

The locker room suddenly seemed so quiet. They seemed too close. And then Alfred kissed him. Gilbert shot backwards, staring.

Alfred looked shocked. "Sorry, I…"

Gilbert licked his lips.

…

Alfred was accepted to the University of Southern California. Gilbert moved with him; that fatass still needed his coach, after all.

* * *

**More from Tumblr. AmePru/PruAme. Rare pairing for you. **

**Thoughts, comments, critiques, all welcome!**


	7. Family Reunion

Lovino slumped in lawn chair. God, he hated these things. His family was behind him, yelling in Italian and English and a garbled version of both. Here he was, stuck drinking soda. At least Feliciano could have fun talking to the adults; he always enjoyed bringing his sketchbook to these things and showing everyone his latest works.

Lovino, meanwhile, usually ended up somewhere alone, in the dark, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. It was all his Grandpa's old, creepy friends who came to these things. Them and his cousins, all of whom could drink. At this particular summer event, Lovino was stuck sitting by the fire. Lovino slumped lower, knees coming perilously close to the flames.

Lovino took a last swig of his soda can before throwing it in the fire. Had anyone actually been sitting with him, they might have scolded him about toxins aluminum released when it was burned. As it was, Lovino was left only with the sound crackling logs.

"Another beer?"

Lovino snorted. Like anyone else at this party needed something to drink.

"Ah… Another beer?"

Lovino's head jerked up. There was a man standing next to him. Lovino had no idea who this person was—he usually didn't. He hugged the relatives who he was introduced to, then went off to sulk.

"Me?"

Lovino could see the stranger's white teeth gleam in the firelight. When had it gotten so damn dark? How long had Lovino been sitting there, staring into the fire?

"Yes. Would you like another one?"

Lovino looked around and sat up. "Fuck it, sure. Why not?"

The man laughed. "Be right back."

Lovino watched him walk away. His eyes were still all fucked up from looking into the fire, so he still couldn't tell who this man was. He wondered if he was related to this man—that was another issue with these things, how the hell was he supposed to tell who he could flirt with? That sexy girl over there, she's your second cousin, Lovino, but of course I didn't tell you until you gave her your phone number.

"Here you go, I grabbed the first one I saw in the cooler." The man returned, handing Lovino a can.

Was this really happening? Lovino found he didn't care, and cracked the beer open. It tasted like absolute piss, but he thanked his lucky stars he wouldn't have to go through the rest of this night fully sober. Lovino glanced over to the man, who had sat down in the chair next to Lovino.

"Who're you?" Lovino asked, squinting and trying to see the man's face.

"Antonio Fernández-Carriedo. I came here with Francis."

Lovino sucked in air through his teeth. He knew it was too good to be true. Francis was one of those cousins who no one was really sure how he related to the family. He bore the general resemblance of the Aunts on one side, but he spoke French like the Uncles on another side. He showed up for all the family gatherings, always toting a new girl (or guy) on his arm.

"Ah, you came here with Francis," Lovino repeated, taking another sip of beer—Lovino was half sure Antonio had pissed in the can.

Antonio laughed, and Lovino was surprised how real it sounded. It didn't sound like the usual flirtatious, obnoxious laugh. "Oh, no, not with him. He wanted some company and someone to drink with, so here I am." Antonio took a sip. "Mm, but you're Lovino, right?"

Lovino made a face. "It's not creepy at all that you know my name."

Antonio laughed, waving one hand like he was trying to dispel Lovino's doubts. "Francis pointed you out earlier. You and your brother…"

"Feliciano," Lovino grumbled, leaning back in his chair. "The boy who is handsome, clever, and an excellent artist."

]"What does that make you?" Antonio asked, standing up and searching his pockets for something.

Lovino watched him, annoyed the bastard couldn't sit down for five seconds and have a normal conversation. It's like he couldn't stay still. "It makes me the boy who sits by himself and gets offered drinks because he's fucking awesome. What the hell are you even looking for?"

Antonio pulled a box out of his back pocket. "There it is!" He flipped the box open, pulling out a cigarette. "Want one?" He offered the box.

Lovino had never been offered a cigarette before. Cigarettes were too valuable at school, a rare commodity that was too cool to offer or share with anyone else. You offered weed, or a sip from a nip, not a cigarette.

Lovino stared at the box. Should he take one? He looked around once again. The adults were still by the tent, talking and drinking. A couple people were laying out on blankets they had brought, while a group of cousins had gathered in a circle and were singing along with the guitar someone had brought.

"Yeah, thanks," Lovino took one, realizing he didn't have a light as he stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

He felt like an idiot until Antonio saved the day, pulling out a lighter. He gestured for Lovino to come closer, and clicked the lighter on when the ends of their sticks met. Lovino saw a flash of green eyes and then his cigarette was lit.

Lovino breathed in the smoke. Now, Lovino didn't smoke, but he knew how not to be a total ass when he did. The first time he had smoked a joint, he had ended up coughing and retching; he had been mortified. After countless hours of practice—spread across his first two years of school—Lovino had mastered the art of smoking.

Antonio smiled when he caught Lovino's eye. Lovino looked away, back toward the fire. "Why aren't you hanging out with Francis if you came with him?"

He could feel Antonio's eyes still on him. "Well, Francis is… Busy. Let's just say, he and I took different cars here. Are you sure he's really your cousin?"

Lovino felt an unwanted smile flick across his face. "Honestly, I don't think he is." Lovino took a sip of beer, looking at Antonio out of the corner of his eye. "Where are you from? Your accent…"

"Spain," Antonio answered. "No particular part. My family moved around a lot. I lived by Portugal for a while, then in Madrid, then down by Morocco, right by the Strait of Gibraltar. I went to University near France, which is where I met your lovely cousin." Antonio blew a smoke ring, which impressed Lovino to a degree that he would never admit to himself. "You?"

Lovino slumped in his chair, flicking his cigarette into the fire. "Just… Here."

"Here is nice, Lovino."

The younger boy snorted. "Sure. What are you doing over here, anyways, Mr. Spain? I would think you would continue your backpacking through your home country before you visit the ass end of the world that is America."

Antonio laughed, flicking his own cigarette into the fire. "I enjoy meeting new people. It feels like I've met everyone over in Spain, so I traveled with Francis to the States."

Lovino grunted. "If I were you, I'd get back on that boat and find some new people over in Europe." Lovino glanced over at Antonio to find him staring at him. A smirk was playing across his face, and he was leaning awfully close. Lovino felt his palms start to sweat.

"What do you do, Lovino?"

"School," Lovino mumbled, taking a calming sip of beer. "I work part time at a restaurant. Why?"

Antonio shrugged, somehow leaning closer. He smelled like sweet alcohol and cigarettes and something unidentifiable that made Lovino want to squirm in his seat. "Well, if you want to leave so badly, why don't you? You could save up. Leave…" He grinned, and underneath the friendly surface, there was something exciting and dangerous. "I could show you the sights."

Lovino's stomach was rolling. He took another sip of beer, but he was feeling lightheaded. "Once again, not creepy at all."

And then, Antonio was light again. He laughed, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes! I forget myself, when I drink. You're welcome to slap me if I come on too strong."

"I'm sixteen."

The smile froze on Antonio's face. "You're kidding."

Lovino glared at the fire, feeling flushed, sweaty, and utterly foolish. He shouldn't have said anything, God damn. "Seventeen next month. Sorry for being fucking jailbait. You're welcome to slap me," Lovino spat, not meeting Antonio's eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know, because Francis pointed you out, I assumed that he… Argh, I'm going to kill that…" Antonio trailed off into Spanish swearing, shaking his head and throwing his can into the fire. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. You're cute—" Lovino winced, "—but I'm twenty-four, and the age of consent here is, what, eighteen?"

"Fuck off, leave me alone," Lovino snapped, scooting down in his chair. God, he was such a fucking idiot sometimes. Curse him and his giant mouth—he and Feliciano were similar in that regard, unfortunately. "I hate these fucking stupid ass stupid parties."

Antonio stood, patting his pockets nervously. "Eh, eh, you're cute when you curse."

Lovino gave Antonio as close to a growl as humanly possible. "Suck my dick."

"I would," Antonio sounded distressed, "but you have to give me a year!"

This thought made Lovino very angry and very… Well… "Oh, get out of here before you make me punch you."

…

Lovino found himself sprawled on a couch, gazing up at the ceiling. This time, Lovino found himself inside a small, cozy house. The music that was blaring outside made Lovino want to shove his fingers in his ears like a child. Feliciano was somewhere outside, offering to paint children's faces, and Lovino was inside, glaring up at the ceiling.

Soda cans surrounded the couch, as well as a bag of chips Lovino had stolen. His Grandfather had taken away his phone, so now all there was left to do was sulk. And sulk Lovino did. Still, no one his age besides his daft brother. Still, Lovino couldn't drink. If Lovino had to imagine a hell, this would be it.

"Want a cigarette?"

Lovino jerked up, whipping around. He gaped, staring at Antonio. The fucker had shown up. That asshole from a year ago had tagged along with Francis again, and was sitting sprawled in the loveseat, looking ever so content with himself. This was the first time Lovino had seen the man in bright lighting—why in good God's name had this man come back for him?

Antonio smiled, offering a cigarette.

* * *

**From Tumblr.**

**Inspired after I got hit on by a 50 year old.**


	8. A Good Guy

In chick flicks, there was always that 'nice guy.' The love interests have a big fight, and the girl always finds some other guy for six months or a year, and then she's back in the original guy's arms. Alfred never dwelled on this fact because he usually only saw one chick flick a year.

Yet, here he was, laying on his couch and binge watching romantic movies. This had more to do with the fact that he had lost the remote than any comfort the movies gave.

Something the movies never told you: being the nice guy fucking hurts. It hurts to smile and nod, knowing deep down that the person you loved belonged with someone else. It hurts to give the person you love a hug before they run into the original guy's arms.

Alfred couldn't even blame Arthur.

"I'm not looking for anything serious."

Alfred glanced over his menu, feeling his mouth twitch into a smile. "We're only on our first date! I didn't even get to the proposal part yet."

Arthur looked away, amused and annoyed. "My… My other boyfriend was…" He reached up to rub his forehead, looking at the distance. "He was intense, and I'm honestly not looking for that level of… Of anything." A shaky breath, then Arthur met Alfred's eyes. "I hope you understand."

Alfred laughed. God, how he had loved Arthur. Everything about the man fascinated Alfred. The obscure British teacher, who tried so hard to be professional and was heart wrenchingly embarrassed when his temper got the better of him.

"A son?" Alfred repeated, buying time and taking another lick of his ice cream cone. "That's…"

Arthur jabbed his spoon angrily into his sundae. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner." He didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just a hard subject to broach. Peter… Doesn't take well to…" Arthur used his spoon to circle Alfred. "He's been awfully cranky since his mother… And Francis…" He ate a spoonful of ice cream, letting out a breath through his nose.

"Can I meet him?" Alfred asked, grinning at the expression on Arthur's face.

July rolled around, Peter and Alfred running around Arthur's yard with sparklers. Arthur had been unusually quiet, preferring to sit and watch rather than participate. The Englishman was practically gloomy, smoking more than usual.

"Hey, Peter, what's up with your dad?" Alfred asked, lighting a new sparkler.

The boy shrugged, squinting in the dark to watch Alfred fumble with the lighter. "Dunno'. Probably something to do with Francis. He picked me up from school the other day and talked to Dad for a while."

Francis. The name was like a phantom that lurked around Arthur's home. Empty picture frames, letters crammed into shoeboxes and hidden under the stairs. Always circling and waiting to hijack conversation. Arthur couldn't even speak about his ex. The little Alfred gathered had been from Peter, and one evening when Arthur had gotten plastered.

Alfred still remembered when he first met Francis. It was a Sunday, and he was watching the football game and explaining the rules to Peter. Arthur was in the kitchen, attempting to cook something from the recipe book Alfred had gotten him. The doorbell rang, and Alfred hopped up to answer it.

The man was wearing a suit, hands in his pockets and dark blond hair cascading around his shoulders. He even had a carefully constructed, rugged stubble. Alfred, wearing an old t-shirt and paint splattered jeans, felt foolish. He knew who this was.

"Is Arthur here?" Francis asked, smile confident and easy.

Alfred had heard a story once about three towns. They all lived near a giant dam that was old and poorly made. The news came that the dam was going to collapsed any day. The first town, three miles away from the dam, was in a panic. The second town, two miles away from the dam, was in an uproar. The third town, a mile away, was completely unconcerned; they refused to admit that they were in impending danger.

Alfred was that third town.

"I should have seen this coming," Alfred whispered, more to himself than Arthur. He stood, taking off his glasses and massaging his eyes. "When? During the business trip?"

Arthur was glaring at the table, eyes glassy. "Last weekend."

"Last…" Alfred laughed softly, running a hand through his hair.

Arthur took a deep breath. "I don't know what you want me to do. Say I'm bloody sorry? Because I am. I'm really fucking sorry." He shook his head, eyes still glued to the table. "Francis is…"

Alfred shook his head. "No, I understand. You have no idea what it was like. To see you two together. He has something I don't." He reluctantly sat back down at the table, reaching out to take Arthur's hand. "I don't know what that is—maybe his sex appeal, or his suits, or maybe just because he pisses you off better than I do."

Arthur's eyes met Alfred. He opened his mouth but no words came out for a few minutes. "Alfred, I'm the one at fault here."

"No, Arthur," Alfred sighed, squeezing his hand. "You can't help who you love." His throat felt tight, and he had to swallow a couple of times before continuing. "And you love Francis."

Alfred gazed at the TV screen, hand groping aimlessly for the remote. Romance movies always had a happy ending, but not for that nice guy. He's swept off the screen like he was never there to begin with. The girl never talks about him again, the kids forget, too. They never show the nice guy sitting at his house, binge watching bad movies.

Arthur had never loved Alfred—never as much as he had loved Francis. Alfred had gotten a piece of that love, cherished it, worked with what Arthur gave him. And it wasn't fair and it hurt. But he couldn't keep Arthur away from Francis, as much as he had wanted to.

You can't help who you love. Alfred loved Arthur.

* * *

More from Tumblr


	9. Harder No, faster

**From anonymous prompt: **"Harder… no, faster." PruAus? If you decide to write it v_v)/ **From prompt set list: **SAY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING TO MY MUSE TO SEE HOW THEY REACT (Innuendo version) **From tumblr user: **frommemetoyou**.**

**More from Tumblr user me: writingandchocolatemilk. :| **

* * *

"Harder… No, faster."

Roderich frowned, eyebrows furrowing. He glanced over through flour covered glasses at the man next to him. Usually, it was Gilbert thinking these things. Well, not that Roderich knew for sure, but sometimes he would say something innocent and Gilbert would _grin_.

He had taken too long to respond.

"I think I know how to knead dough, Gilbert. I own a bakery, after all."

Gilbert laughed, checking Roderich lightly with his hip. "Yeah, and you always call me over to help with the piecrusts, so shut up."

It was true, Gilbert worked a rolling pin like the knights of old used to wield swords. Roderich, an excellent baker if he said so himself, could never quite get the right thickness for piecrust. It either ended up thinner than a hair or too thick to cook through all the way through.

"I don't have to help, you know…" Gilbert teased, smirk stretching across his face. "I don't like these early morning rendezvous."

Roderich frowned down at his dough. What an odd choice of words. "I don't exactly enjoy when you try to be clever, so it looks like we're an impasse." He reached up to adjust his glasses, smearing more flour onto them.

Gilbert mock gasped and looked around. "Roderich! That's impolite! Someone might hear you."

Roderich took off his glasses, setting them aside. "No one here besides your idiotic bird," he grumbled. The dough was too thin. Roderich massaged it back into a ball and began again.

"I think you mean my darling," Gilbert snapped, eyes wandering over to his canary resting on one of the tabletops; Roderich would have to wipe it down thoroughly. "You look good without your glasses," Gilbert commented quietly, making eye contact briefly.

Lies and flattery. Roderich snorted. "I'm not letting you lick anything."

It was Gilbert's turn for his eyebrows to draw together. Then he laughed. "Aw, come on! One little lick."

Perhaps Roderich should hire an actual employee instead of dragging Gilbert from his house every morning. But… Employees were expensive. And Gilbert was free. And the pies would suffer.

"No," Roderich sighed.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Roderich realized Gilbert was watching him intently. It was suddenly very dark and very quiet in his bakery. Roderich stopped rolling his dough, checking its thickness. He considered the question. It was true, not much could happen; it was too early. The baker replaced his glasses.

Roderich turned to Gilbert, whose smile froze. Gilbert certainly was something; who had even heard of a successful blogger? How does one even get paid? At least it left Gilbert plenty of time to work out with his brother. It showed.

Yes, Roderich considered the question.

He also considered the three wedding bands he had at home.

"I could lose my piecrust maker," Roderich answered, turning back to the dough. "Besides, you wouldn't know what you were doing."

Gilbert spluttered. "Excuse me. I think I'm perfecting good at s… Uh, rolling piecrusts."

Roderich checked his dough. Too thick.


End file.
